


Overcome

by wickedrum



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-01 05:44:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4008055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickedrum/pseuds/wickedrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Losing elven life was never a plan of Thranduil’s and so he tries everything in his power to salvage the injured after BOTFA, even if at his own detriment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gap

**Author's Note:**

> I had this idea that given that Thranduil is elven royalty, he would possess some healing powers. As I had a lot of other fics to write at the time I gave middlearthstories the following prompt: the elvenking exhausts himself trying to heal the wounded-a prompt she filled in perfectly, I love her story. And yet when a plot bunny doesn’t leave you alone there’s nothing you can do-you have to write it. This is my version. 

Disclaimers: Unfortunately I don't own a Lee Pace. Not the original, and not any of his characters. Written for enjoyment only.  
Genre: Hurt/comfort.

Tauriel staggered towards the largest healing tent in the elven camp dazedly, essentially oblivious to her surroundings. Kili had been taken from her and while Balin and Oin assured her that they would take good care of the fallen dwarf price as they prepared him for the funeral, that left Tauriel with nothing to do but think-not a desirable outcome for the time being. She had sat on the top of the hill, where they’d left her, for hours, numb, helpless, unable to move with the heavy burden in her heart that weighted her limbs down too. 

Slowly though and gradually, some of her surrounds filtered through the thick, disorientating fog that took hold of her traumatised mind, some happenings that entreated even to her withdrawn, suffering self: such as cries of anguish of every race coming from everywhere on the uneven terrain that had been the battlefield. Cries that one part of her mind deemed irrelevant, but the other could not ignore. 

Looking around dully, but with somewhat more purpose, Tauriel dried her tears as best as she could, gathered herself up from the ground and started her stumbling, confounded journey down towards the elvish base camp in the gloomy and disheartening light that bathed the horizon under the setting sun. There were too many dead she did not want to see, more than she could take and so she kept her eyes on her moving feet, instinct guiding her rather than sight as she manoeuvred between sticking out roots of lavaralda and fallen warriors. It was due to this and her addled mental state that someone could sneak up on her, to the extent that it was the blade of a sword pressed to her neck loosely that stopped her a few feet away from her destination. 

“What are you doing here Tauriel.” Feren, the owner of the weapon questioned. “Defector by any other name if I’m not mistaken.” He added gravely as an address, eyes boring into her sternly as the king’s personal guard looked her up and down probingly.

“I am a skilled healer, I can help. Ask anyone,” she contended. 

“And we can trust you aren’t going in there to attack the king again,” Feren said sceptically.

“The king is inside?” Tauriel wondered. It surprised her at some level, but she didn’t give it much conscious thought in her disarray.

“Aren’t you supposed to be banished at the very least, traitor.” Thranduil’s personal guard continued morosely. As far as he was concerned, Tauriel’s behaviour had been inexcusable. He had seen them growing up-Legolas and Tauriel both, how was it that they turned against the hand that fed them? He himself had been in charge of protecting them with his life when they were little, but his loyalties were foremost with the king, a level-headed ruler he would’ve followed into the death if the safety of the land so required.

“We aren’t in Mirkwood as such,” the warrior maiden disregarded him, making to go past only to be met with the other elf bodily blocking her way. “Feren.” She stated tiredly. “How long have we served together? Fought together? Do you not know me? I harbour no wishes to harm his majesty.” The elven maiden stated mildly, “never did.”

“Acts speak Tauriel, not words,” the faithful servant defended the potential security of his ruler.

“There has been enough death and suffering here today. Allow me to help,” the redhead solicited, “let us bear our burden together and after that, if the king still so wishes, I will leave, never to be heard of ever again. But if I must, if you make me, I can also leave now. Perhaps the dwarfs’ camp will appreciate my assistance more.” Her brazen self won out over sense. 

The dark haired elf loosened his grip on his sword, but didn’t lower it. Elves were not known to hurt one another, least of all their king, so he was somewhat confused over the day’s events. “Hand over your weapons. All of them,” he ordered. 

Tauriel complied silently and without a second thought. She was too worn out, both physically and emotionally, to feel compelled to act otherwise. Two swords, a couple of daggers and a few arrows later she stepped into the large tent to be greeted with the sight and sound of devastation, so unusual to be witnessed from the likes of elves-the blood, grave injuries, proudly muffled, but under the circumstances inevitable cries of pain and rushed voices of a small number of healers trying to tend to all of them. She didn’t even know where to start. 

The first person she could get to was a young archer, barely of age to be taken into battle-with both of his legs broken, flesh hanging down in tatters, no doubt crushed by some falling wall or rocks. He was quiet and complacent enough, eyes distant and with the strange, distinct absence of panic-probably one of the lucky ones the healers bestowed a calming spell on, or one of the unlucky ones more like, since there was not much else that could be done for him on a short term basis. Many others were in similar states-kept in a stasis till someone could get to properly treating them. Kingsfoil they all needed. 

“Where’s the athelas?” Tauriel addressed one of the healers tending to a soldier with a headwound a few rows of injured down. 

“We barely have any.” The other she elf only glanced up at her for a moment before turning her eyes to the rolling of bandages. “Nothing like this was expected…if you have any teaching or skill, do what you can, either with spells or even through the way of men. The king has sent for supplies to the caves, but they aren’t likely to arrive till tomorrow. The table in the middle-you will find soothing herbs, bindings, miruvor, healing stones, branches for steadying fractures, needle and thread. Can you make do? There are so little of us gifted, nothing like this was planned for…” She repeated, the pain of the devastation prevalent in her voice, along with hope for Tauriel to help. 

“I am captain of the royal guard, we were all trained in the art of healing with that rank shall the king ever need it,” she assured, stepping in the direction of the mentioned provisions and intending to start with the shaking elf propped up at the foot of the table, who was clamping his injured arm with his other hand, rather inefficiently, with blood seeping through. 

“The king needs you alright,” her conversation partner supplied.

It made Tauriel pause slightly. She had been surprised beforehand that Thranduil was in there, but so far had not been able to ask of the cause, “is the king wounded?” She had spoken to him on Ravenhill, but small skirmishes still went on round the battlefield after that before all coming to a standstill.

“The king has taken to providing healing. He has been moving from elf to elf for hours, conveying strength and life to anyone who needs it. He insists on far-reaching healing for every person, rather than the amount required for every soul to get by,” she shook her head.

Tauriel nodded at the injured elf sitting in front of her, asking permission to proceed and started pressure binding the bleeding wound. “Thranduil heals?” She wondered out aloud. Of course she was aware that those of the royal blood had the inherent gift to do so, but would he have the experience and knowledge necessary given that Tauriel could not remember an instance of someone as much as mentioning to her before that Thranduil had done something like that, never mind seeing it with her own eyes. It was not something she could easily picture. Thranduil didn’t as much as touch another living being or mingle with his subjects, let alone walk their ranks.

“Magnificently,” the other healer enthused, “he made many walk out of here hale by this time, but he can’t do it all on his own so get to it, elleth”, she urged, seeing as Tauriel’s motions had slowed down due to her ponderings. 

Tbc


	2. Marshalled

Chapter 2: Marshalled

The sun’s morning light had filtered through the tent’s flaps enough to render the candles unnecessary by the time Tauriel encountered Thranduil. It was in another tent, a second one that had to be erected for the many injured elvenfolk and the few humans somebody must’ve deemed acceptable to be aided at some point. There was one dwarf she encountered too, he was unconscious and thus not able to object to being treated by some foe by tradition. Tauriel did not differentiate between patients, bandaged and sewn and comforted dozens, tiredness barely registering at the edge of her consciousness till the moment of pause when she stepped over to the large cauldron by the fire to wash blood off her hands, allowing her mind to catch up with her body and prompting her to lean on the rim of the cauldron and catch her breath. Her eyes wandering to decide on the next person to help, she caught sight of a healer bent over an elf with a large cut on the chest that didn’t look deep, mumbling quietly while applying athelas. The precious herb they were quickly running out of was only meant to be used for the gravest of injuries and Tauriel paused to wonder if its use was correct in this instance till she focussed on the face of the healer, doing a double take. Thranduil like she’s never seen him before. 

By what she could gather from a distance, the king was offering some soothing words to the injured footsoldier, his long, nimble fingers at work as he covered the wound. At first sight, he did not look any different than her other companions, his clothes stained with blood from top to toe, he was gaunt and worn-out in his efforts to contain losses. Tauriel had never seen him with so little clothes on, no crown, no adornments, armour or regal garments. All that remained from his warrior king ensemble were the thin breeches he wore underneath the battle skirt and the undershirt worn to soak up the sweat, fastens coming half undone at the top. It was possibly the most comfortable and suited for the task Thranduil was engaged in, along with his sloppily, but surprisingly, for once braided hair that still kept the blond curtain out of his vision. Movements halting at times that required conscious effort to refocus and sweat collecting on his brow, he looked exhausted, and yet there was an ethereal glow about him that characterised elven royals so much that Tauriel found herself staring at the contrast in the apparition. It was that, or the clear outline of his well defined, yet subtle muscles, noticeably visible under the wafer-thin garbs. 

Somewhere, Thranduil’s intuitive, receptive mind registered being scrutinised and he reciprocated it with a nod in her direction, “I’m glad you’ve decided to put your skills to good use.”

Tauriel lowered her head in respect. Genuine respect she hadn’t had for the king in centuries. “I had been here since twilight, my Lord,” she felt the need to share. She did not want him to think she would not care for her fellow compatriots.

“I saw you,” Thranduil disclosed, “your deeds here tonight will not be overlooked when I pass judgement,” he promised. 

“I require no preferential treatment,” Tauriel opposed. “I did not come to help for personal gain.” She maintained before leaving the king to his own devices with a parting nod and taking to assess the condition one of the brought in women was in. Without the power of self-healing, the humans’ injuries were more likely to be life-threatening and she didn’t like how laboured the woman’s breathing had become. Gauging the amount of blood pooling under the person, something that could be a fatal loss for a human, the redhead decided upon using some of the scarce leaves of kingsfoil at their disposal as well, disregarding that some elves, including healers would object to mortals being put ahead of fellow pointy eared warriors, but a life was a life and Tauriel’s views haven’t changed on that. 

Thranduil didn’t object, most likely busy with his own patient, so the elleth took the opportunity and attained some clean bindings soaked in the healing herb’s brew. The woman was thankful, calming instantly and although she was too feeble to speak, she grabbed onto the healer elf’s hand and squeezed, conveying her gratitude. 

“Egor! Someone please help!” Sounded from behind her. 

The request itself didn’t sound out of place, Tauriel had heard the same few words coming from a number of mouths during the night. But this voice sounded curiously strong, unlike the suffering wounded and way too close for her not to turn around. It was the warrior Thranduil had previously been attending to, now strong, healed and animated, in the process of laying a limp, sagging and lifeless king from his arms onto the cot he himself had previously been lying on while he was enfeebled. 

“What happened!” Tauriel jumped over, looking around the tent. There was nobody else to help. 

“I don’t know, he leaned over and blanched and then I knew I had to get up and catch him,” the young archer explained. 

“Anything else?” The elleth urged, ghosting a hand over the king’s ashen face, finding it cold and clammy and dappled with dark circles of exhaustion. 

“He gasped and held his side earlier?” The former patient tried to find something useful to say. 

Tauriel nodded, storing the information away for later. “Are you well enough to go find Feren?” She probed, “the king will need his assistance,” she explained.

“Be assured and know that I will find him,” the young elf hurried off with a hand held to his chest to ease the lingering pain of his mostly healed injury. 

“My Lord?” Tauriel questioned, trying to get a reaction by daring once more to touch, this time on the shoulder. “Thranduil?”

The king flinched and moaned, curling in slightly onto the side she had touched, prompting her to frown and contemplate investigating further. Guardedly and slowly, she reached out towards the hem of his undershirt and grabbed hold of it. It took her another few moments of consideration, scrutiny of his face and weighing up his state of consciousness before she gathered the courage to lift it and reveal skin, though once it was done, she held no regrets-it had to be carried out. Withal, she paused, stricken at the sight-a large area of his side and half of his chest was covered in purple, red and blue bruises, suspect for several broken ribs that Tauriel could’ve bet would’ve been the result of an orc’s strike catching him in the side through the armour. Nothing was out of place or openly bleeding thankfully, but Thranduil had been up and about all night, spending his strength not on self healing, but on tending to others and that in itself was a perfect explanation for him passing out, there was no need to look for another. 

Another pained moan from Thranduil brought her attention back to his face and she found herself looking straight into the beautiful blue, albeit dulled and troubled eyes of her sovereign. She dropped the hem immediately and bowed, “my king,” she offered unnerved and blushing as much as her own tiredness allowed, “I didn’t mean to pry.” She averted her eyes, looking everywhere but his exposed upper body. Of course looking a little bit lower had not been the greatest idea either. 

Thranduil gave displeased grunt and pulled his shirt down, but Tauriel didn’t let herself be thwarted, “your injuries need tended to. Allow me to bring some athelas…”

“No. Baw.” He interrupted her firmly, “it’s a scarcity. We will not waste it on someone who’s life isn’t in danger.” 

“But your Majesty,” Tauriel found herself disagreeing with him again, “you have used it yourself on non-lifethreatening injuries.”

“No matter.” He shushed her, “you cannot do much with this sort of injury. I will wait till I can heal myself.” 

“That might take a while in your current state of exhaustion.” The younger elf contended for his sake. 

“I’ve heard what happened,” Feren burst in, ready for action. 

“The king has serious injuries himself,” Tauriel explained while Thranduil took the opportunity to rest a little, closing his eyes against the continuous spinning of the room, “and he refuses remedies to be wasted on him,” she relayed her relevant knowledge of the situation. 

Feren nodded, largely unsurprised. “Could you try convincing him?” Tauriel pressed, exasperated.

“And what would be the purpose of such thing?” The personal guard offered, raising his brows. “The king’s word is law.”

“If he was unconscious, we would treat him without a second thought!” The redhead maintained, insistent. 

“But I am not unconscious,” Thranduil himself argued, though his eyes remained closed and his colour showed no signs of improving. “I need to get to my tent,” he continued, “no others should find out their king is injured if Mirkwood elves are to remain looking strong,” he claimed. 

“You should stay here where we can treat you,” Tauriel tried arguing again, just for the sake of the truth being voiced. 

“We have a couple of hours till the troops are ready to march back. Those couple of hours of rest will do me,” Thranduil held stubbornly. 

“Can you walk, my Lord?” Feren enquired. 

“Of course.” The king rose slowly, his measured and regal movements only a little bit slower than normal. His face schooled into neutral after a couple of shaky breaths, he held up his arm on his good side to stop the hesitating, half forward stepping Tauriel to assist him. 

The elleth however, perchance misinterpreting the gesture or pretending to at the very least, provided support for the arm and steadied him, not missing his shaking legs and slightly hunched stance. Thranduil had no more strength left to oppose. He swallowed thickly, considering whether his wobbly knees could indeed make the journey across the uneven terrain, up to his royal tent. His mind was rather hazy after all-when was it again that Feren appeared on his other side and steadied him too?

“The camp is mostly asleep still.” The faithful servant assured, “I am confident we can get you over there without much commotion.

Thranduil nodded minutely and set a foot forward, not objecting to the other two’s help till they reached the tent flap. There, he stopped and as if a wave was going through him from top to toe, his demeanour changed-he was once more their reserved, resilient, imposing elvenking. Neither Feren, nor Tauriel had to be told to remove their hands, but they followed as close by as etiquette at all allowed. 

Tbc

Glossary:

Egor – help  
Baw – don’t


	3. Plinth

Chapter 3: Plinth

Tauriel felt Feren’s antagonism towards her from the first moment he relayed Thranduil’s message to Legolas asking his son to return and Tauriel never to do so, but over the last couple of hours as they made their way back towards the Elvenking’s Halls on horseback and tagging Thranduil close, it seemed as if the two were united by a common goal-getting the king home safe and sound. 

The elleth’s supposed banishment or any other punishment was never mentioned and Feren made no attempt to stop her from crossing the border seeing as how the elvenking didn’t give the matter any attention either. Sure of course, the blond was too busy concentrating on not falling off his reserve steed. Two hours of rest before trooping across the mountain pass were never going to be enough, but Thranduil insisted on showing no weakness in front of his people. Ultimately having to retreat after suffering great losses in what was supposed to be a walkover for them, he could not afford for the morale to lower among the elves any more, they still had a forest to protect and a stronghold to guard for the long term survival of their kind. 

“Feir! Don’t lag behind!” Feren barked at her grumpily, though you could tell it was because he was worried. It was only a handful who knew about Thranduil’s afflictions and he needed Tauriel to concentrate. The warrior maiden had been looking back the way quite a lot of late. Was she about to desert again?

“I am tired, Feren,” she offered as an explanation and closed ranks. And she was. Too tired to walk and thankful he had been offered the opportunity to ride beside the king, too tired to think, move and too tired to mourn. The funeral of the fallen Durins would be held shortly and she will not be there. Her heart pulled her back, but she could not go, not if she had to say good bye all over again, not when she would not be able to enter the royal tomb deep within the Lonely Mountain ever again after. It was her own king she has to concentrate on-one that was gripping the bridle of his stallion rigidly, focusing his unmoving eyes on the mane and hunched slightly forward, only noticeable to those who knew his proud posture well. “And the king could do with some rest too,” she suggested.

“We’re to stop by the stream so that the tail end can catch up.” Feren supplied. The army always did that, as not everyone could fit through the narrow mountain passage at once. 

“He won’t last that long,” Tauriel warned. Thranduil had started showing signs of distress openly, very unlike how he intended to present himself, such as biting his lip in pain, his torso seizing into a tight knot, or cleaning his brow of sweat with the sleeve of his silver robe, a more regal outfit he’d adopted now that the battle was over. Having not much more capacity for anything other than trying to survive the trip, he let his horse follow the path without paying attention to where they were going. The steed should’ve avoided the boulder in their way on his own, but somehow he still stumbled. The animal caught himself and readjusted his balance before his knees could hit the ground and continued as if nothing would’ve happened, but the shuggle of his upper body was enough for the king to make an audible gasp and for the pain to make him nauseous and dizzy. He hung onto the reigns with all his might and when that still felt unbalanced he hung onto the mane like it would’ve been for dear life and yet…

“Get him from under!” Tauriel’s voice sounded closer than the other cacophony of distressed and hasty voices as she held onto him from her saddle as much as she could, letting the king’s drooping head rest against her shoulder while various guards took to holding the horses steady and close to each other till Feren could dismount and held his arms out for the king to be lowered into them. 

Tauriel rushed to his side on the incidental moss bed he had been placed to on the spot among the questions of dozens of servants and soldiers close by who happened to witness the spectacle. “He has been injured in the battle,” she explained to the concerned gathering while Feren shook his head disapprovingly. Yes, there were witnesses, but the king still wished to keep his condition private so why was Tauriel so vocal about it?

“No, we don’t think it’s a grave injury,” the elleth pacified some others who came forward to help. “He will just need rest so please give him room,” she solicited loudly and forcibly. 

The crowd retreated meekly, their glances covert now. Further behind, a low murmur was going through the lines of soldiers, no doubt telling each other of the situation. But it was quiet and settled enough for Tauriel to refocus her attention on the ailing elf. He looked lifeless and so pasty white like a ghost, expression marred in pain as he was probably half-consciously, visibly struggling to resurface with minute movements of his head from side to side. 

Tauriel turned to Feren, “the athelas. We need to apply some before he comes to and forbids it.”

The dark haired guard studied the unconscious king restlessly. It looked like he would’ve given anything not to see their leader in his miserable state. “Very well,” he gave his blessing. 

One of the high-ranking healers was kneeling on the other side of the king by then, having come forward to fulfil his duties, “I am very sorry, but we have none left at all,” he shook his head apologetically, “what is the extent of the damage?” He enquired, setting to work by taking the king’s hand in his boldly, feeling for how strong the life force was within him. 

“See for yourself,” Tauriel unfastened the ties on Thranduil’s robe. Thankfully, he only had a simple, light tunic under, presumably because he would have been too uncomfortable to have to spend effort on robing and too secretive to ask for assistance.

“We need drapes and poles for above,” Feren gestured at his underlings, pointing up. By the looks of it, Tauriel was intent on undressing the king right there and then and the best he could do was trying to protect the ruler’s privacy. 

The redhead grabbed hold of the tunic and rolled it up gently, mindful she didn’t jostle the broken ribs. It was maybe that she was looking at the site of the injury outdoors in broad daylight, but the red and blue blotches looked more extensive and pronounced, the king’s chest barely moving in its attempt at guarding his ribcage and taking in air without inhaling daggers at every breath. 

“What do you think?” Tauriel asked the older healer. 

The professional was scrutinising the injury intently, but without touching. Instead, he hovered a hand half an inch from Thranduil’s chest, splaying his fingers as he sensed for indication of the extent of internal damage. “His majesty is very weak,” the chief healer concluded, “he cannot heal himself. He should’ve not undertaken the healing of others.”

“Yes, well said, you should try telling him that,” Tauriel complained sardonically. “You know how he is.”

The elder healer-warrior spared her a fleeting blink of disapproval. While he on principle would’ve agreed with the opinion, openly criticising the aran was not a done thing. “I will bestow serenity on him to ease his suffering,” the Silvan healer placed a palm on the king’s forehead for the spell. 

Tauriel sighed, sitting back on her haunches. So the same spell she had seen at work all night, granted to dozens of the injured because there was nothing more they could do for them. It was unsettling to see the proud king suffering the same fate. At least the creases on his brow softened and his breathing became more relaxed. 

Tbc

Glossary:

Feir – hurry  
Aran - king


	4. All Manner of Confused

Chapter 4: Manners

The tent had been set up by the roadside and Thranduil had been lifted inside it where it was decided he would remain till the new batch of athelas coming from the Halls was intercepted, unless plans changed by the king deciding otherwise. Tauriel hoped that the calmative spell bestowed upon him by the elder would make the king sleep longer because frankly, she herself didn’t have much liveliness in her left to argue with him and they both needed the rest, but it was hard to say how the invocation will affect him, it did different things to different people. 

The redhead was shattered despite her elven contitution, she wished for nothing more than climbing onto the bed next to him and resting for days. But she could not afford a luxury like that or anything close. Given that Feren had made the leap and trusted her with the king’s care, she should be doing something, right? Like act on her sympathies. Just because they didn’t have the necessary healing herb it didn’t mean she couldn’t try to make him feel better. Grabbing hold of the bowl and cloth Thranduil used to refresh himself in the morning, she stepped outside and layered it thinly with some snow, intending to dab the fabric in it and apply it on those bruises and breaks. It would not make a lot of difference, but she had to do something, if only to make her own self feel like she was making a difference. 

Arriving back, she paused again-how was it that over the course of the last few hours she had been touching the untouchable king so many times and was about to do it again? Her desire to help him outweighed her unease though and she took to arrange his hands to his sides and out the way so she could get to his fine undergarments once more and took his boots off so that she could maybe make him feel more comfortable. In the quiet and peace that Feren promised to provide by standing just outside the tent, Tauriel’s movements were unhurried, partly because of the exhaustion taking a toll on her due to the lull of her surroundings and partly because she wasn’t entirely convinced she was doing the right thing. 

She pulled the fabric aside gently with a sigh, but it wasn’t the injuries her addled mind registered first this time, though to her credit she paused no longer than a few short moments as she distractedly took in the shapes and sizes defining his chest and abs, her mind too hazy from all the sorrow and troubles of the last days for her conscious mind to take control. Why did he always have to hide these treasures? They were not for a mere lowly subject’s eyes of course-so will Thranduil be angry when he finds out she helped herself to the sight as a side-effect of putting her healing skills at use? And why was she staring at Thranduil’s muscles now of all times again? How inappropriate of her from many angles. She deliberately blinked herself back to focus, and yet her hands brushed against the healthy side of his well toned chest lightly, unnecessarily, when they chose the path through the air to reach back for the cloth. 

Deeming him rather sweaty and probably uncomfortable with it party as if seen, it would’ve put him in a less than preferable light in his superior ruler’s status, Tauriel elected to wash him down first. She started with his forehead, the sides of his face, his neck, arriving once more to that smooth, perfectly shaped upper body of his. Who knew it would be so distracting to touch? 

Tauriel found it took some conscious effort from her to concentrate elsewhere other than the feel under her fingers and the slight curves they mounted, but she washed him, cooled his injuries as well as she could under the circumstances, lingering with the cold cloth there longer, going as far on his sides as possible with the tunic still under his back. The redhead would not move him, certain it would probably cause more harm than good. 

The bruises on his side continued downwards though and it occurred to her that nobody had checked his injuries below the waistline. The skilled archer briefly considered pulling his breeches down, but thought better of it blushing as much as her own pale face allowed. How inappropriate again Tauriel, she scolded herself. But then again, she wasn’t present as a maiden, not even as captain of his guard, she was there in her healer capacity. And would a healer not want to know what they were dealing with?

With slight trembling of the hands she could not suppress, Tauriel slid the hem of his breeches minutely down for a little peek, taking a big breath to steady herself against her apprehensive nerves that nightmarishly anticipated him coming to at exactly the wrong moment. The bruises seemed to fade out lower, but one little peek gave her no certainty. She would take another look from the middle towards the side to be sure. 

It was a very awkward thing to do and she wondered fleetingly whether she should call Feren in for it, then decided Thranduil would prefer less people ogling at his privates. She just had to ignore the feel of the springy softness of the hair of his pleasure trail and his tiled abs that she knew in any other circumstances would’ve made her shiver. Confusing. Was Thranduil right to start with, did her affections to Kili not run as deep as she had thought? 

To her relief though, the contusions did indeed stop a little below his hip and she did not need to investigate further, nonetheless she did wish she could unsee the ghost of an alabaster contour curving downwards between his legs, perfectly shaped and enticingly plump. She would carry on with padding his ribs with the snow cold fabric instead.

Little did she know that his eyes were closed not because he was still unconscious, but because he decided to keep them so. If Tauriel intended to use the coldness to bring him to his senses, it was working, but as he roused to her ministrations his mind also registered the inappropriateness of the situation. The lowly elleth undressing him and tending to his wounds was one thing and he’d almost elected making itself known he was aware, but then the curious maiden decided to investigate his privates and at that point he had no idea how him as the elvenking should proceed in those circumstances. Surely it was going too far and Tauriel should be punished for it but did he want her punished? 

However, having to bear her touch and not show it affecting him was becoming increasingly difficult. She was a skilled healer and archer, of course her fingers would be nimble and lithe, but knowing that and experiencing that on his own skin was another. And if he did not desire her before, this little escapade certainly strengthened his wishes to have the insolent little minx in his arms and bed her. 

Thranduil had a hard job suppressing his desires and keeping it concealed in the thin material of his leggings, but he just had to keep reminding himself that his kingly self was meant to be aloof and unimpressed with her and more importantly, it might ruin and jeopardise an otherwise rather shaky, tentative and uncertain relationship with further complications between them. 

He could not let his cock react, he could not, he repeated like a chant ashamedly. It helped, as it reminded him of all the other times he kept himself back, snuff out budding desires he might’ve had for her over the years. He snubbed Legolas having a relationship with her so he couldn’t either. And now there they were with the consequences of those decisions: Tauriel falling for another and his son not being able to bear and watch and had consequently departed for lengthy travels with a dubious end date. He could’ve laughed at himself-the grand elvenking in such a predicament: partly for bodily and party for diplomatic and tactical reasons, he could not do much else than having to endure the torture of having the beautiful and inimitable maiden so close and caring, touching his naked form and not being able to do anything about it. Taking a shaky breath and grinding his teeth, a groan eventually escaped him.

Tauriel paused and raised her head to look at his face, "Thranduil?” She questioned sympathetically. 

The high ranking elf thanked Valar he was too pale to be able to blush right now. There weren’t many individuals, elf or non-elf who could unhinge and confuse him, forcing him to act outside what would be considered his typical demeanour. Frantically thinking about what his excuse could be for the groan, he hovered a hand over his injured side and blinked open his weary eyes. Not as if he had to fake being in pain, it was maybe plausible to blame his moan on it, despite his royal status not allowing for showing weakness. But he was supposed to be half unconscious after all. “Continue.” He grabbed hold of her withdrawing hand, “you’re doing good.”

Tauriel hesitated and then pulled back, “let me make it colder again," Tauriel wrung the washcloth out and placed it into the show before setting it atop his ribs anew gently, fingers barely brushing across his skin. "Is that helping?"

Thranduil nodded and closed his eyes once more. It was soothing, a whole new level of pleasurable all right, but far enough from his groins not to cause him to noticeably harden if he was careful enough. The young elf sighed, relieved that she could make a difference and that Thranduil accepted her as his caretaker for the time being. She didn’t quite understand why, but she hated seeing him in pain. He thankfully seemed a bit calmer, more comfortable and his previously sweaty skin clean and soft, and gaining colour and her mind started to wonder again as she watched the melting snow making trails of droplets on their way round and down his perfect torso, sliding into his bellybutton and some into the valleys of his muscles, into his pleasure trail and dampening those breeches she had peeked under previously. With Kili gone and them barely safe from death's clutches, how could she have such inappropriate stray reactions to want to explore that area hidden to her under the material? What was wrong with her?

She had heard about his manhood, yes. She had heard about his expertise and persistence with which he could please a woman endlessly. Although servants and the lucky odd young elleth he occasionally bedded were supposed to keep it quiet, not all did, not after a few decades or so. Tauriel's hand wandered off by own accord while thinking about a once companion's words as she refreshed the cloth, over his stomach and across the tip of that pleasure trail, her pinkie’s thumbnail barely, but definitely meandering into soft tuft of the hairs that lower disappeared under fabric. She immediately felt a rush of strong desire that shook her to her senses. It was so wrong from all angles and considerations that she could’ve slapped herself. However, doing so mentally was enough to make her refocus on the task.

Her little escapade shook the boundaries of his self control. Feeling his penis stretching against the thin fabric of his only garment protecting him, he was in danger of losing his precarious composure. He could take no more of her touch, not unless it was for torture and not for the comfort she had been intending. Jumpy and shaking with want, he gathered his strength to speak. "Thank you, Tauriel. I think it'd be best if I'd tried sleeping the rest off now. I'm truly feeling a lot better, don't worry now."

"As you wish, my king," Tauriel rasped quickly, partially relieved that she did not have to navigate on treacherous waters anymore, but also somewhat thwarted that she couldn't continue with helping him. His stubborn disposition must’ve taken over, she assumed. Tauriel rubbed at her forehead tiredly with her sleeves, only now realizing she was sweating as well from the intensity and ardency or the moment, which she promptly chastised herself for as well. 

She got properly back on track as Feren stepped into the tent just then, holding some crock that emanated the distinct smell of kingsfoil. “The ones we sent forward finally came back to intercept us with the athelas,” he announced, coming close to smiling. 

The next round of pad applied was a cloth saturated in the brew of the healing liquid. Tauriel gave the king an encouraging, hopeful smile. As the injury wasn’t severe, it should not take more than a few moments for the preparation to make a difference. The king was indeed breathing visibly deeper and some of the bruising turned to a less pronounced colour. She expected Thranduil to change demeanour, demand his horse and continuing back home. 

Instead, he stifled a wince, turning to his good side, albeit with less difficulty than he’d have previously been able to, “leave me,” he ascertained, “have some rest Tauriel. We will depart after mine.”

Tbc


	5. Refurbished

Chapter 5: Refurbished

Too numb to care about much in life, Tauriel did not question it when two elves she knew as her direct underlings came to wake her up early the morning after their arrival to the caves. She did not question it when they relayed the details of their supposed patrol together, not when they expected her to give out the orders, not when they left her the task of reporting back. Seemingly everything went back to normal smoothly as if nothing would’ve happened. 

It was queer, not a soul acting as if she was at fault disobeying the king or threatening his life, so she had to assume it was something to do with an order coming from above. Thranduil had openly forgiven her, stern façade be damned and that was unnerving as she didn’t think she should be forgiven herself and moreso, because it wasn’t in his character. Tauriel had decided to confront the ruler on the issue, offer herself up for punishment. However noble her reasons had been, rules that were meant to protect the kingdom and its inhabitants were broken and she didn’t expect to be singled out in her treatment, never mind how close and alike siblings her and Legolas had been growing up. 

The undertaking however, had to wait. According to servants in attendance and councillors as well, the king had not recovered yet. Allegedly, he was not leaving his bed, never mind his rooms, sick and weak and sleeping most of the time. For a few days, that was marginally understandable, though Tauriel was still surprised his stubborn streak didn’t win out. Perhaps for parties it was too early, but the captain did expect council gatherings to examine faults in individual battle strategies of each squadron and dictations for the historians. None came, not that week, or the next and by then no mystical force, good or bad could keep the rumours in the stronghold at bay-the king was gravely ill and perhaps fading. Believe it she did not want, but there was that nagging suspicion on her mind, that it had all fit. Why had he passed out from mere broken ribs? Why did the athelas not heal him better? Why did he not persevere with the journey back? Why had he been so accepting of her help?

“Is it true?” Tauriel barged in unhindered upon the faithful servant Feren, ever close to his master and this time in the ante room of the royal chambers. 

He swallowed and had to say no words. The expression on his face was telling enough so Tauriel rephrased the question. “How could this happen? His injuries weren’t life threatening. I’ve seen them myself. I felt his life force. It was strong, strong enough to sustain healing several others-“ She cut herself off, “was that it? Did he expend it all?”

Feren shook his head sadly, “it was everything. A lot of matters and concerns contributed,” he established sternly, fixing Tauriel with his eyes in a way she felt he was blaming her for some of those matters and concerns. 

“I want to see him.” The redhead stated firmly, guilt tearing at her violently. 

The dark haired chief guard groaned, “strangely, there’s nothing to hold you back. You’re one of the very few people we’re to let through when they ask.”

Tauriel allowed herself a half sigh of relief, letting the air out her lungs slowly, contemplative. Again with that preferential treatment. She wouldn’t let a good opportunity pass however and so she stepped into the royal section of the living quarters of the caves, somewhat at a loss. She would have to guess which door led into the master bedroom as she had never previously make it this far. Even young Legolas knew not to test boundaries by inviting her over. 

The redhead advanced timidly for once, not sure what to expect-a theatrical set up of a dying king propped up on pillows in a silken bed, the depiction of a working king, writing up his experiences and legacy for future generations or a helpless representation of humility in dying in the sight of a weak and defenceless form who was unable to fend for themselves either due to his physical condition or having constantly been drinking to stay stoned. 

Shaking herself out of daydream, she found neither wandering round the vast and densely decorated, warm and comfortable rooms, in fact she did not find Thranduil either. Not in what she had to assume was the master bedroom with its surprisingly thinner bed than she would’ve imagined, not in the also surprisingly untidy study or the various annexes that would have served as two storey walk in wardrobes and stowing booths, at least not in the ones she dared to peek into for fear she might happen upon a private moment or indeed a privy. 

At a loss, she ambled back into the red themed hall all the other main rooms opened from, weighed by the feeling of emptiness. This will be how the space will look like when the king does fade and it overwhelmingly felt like he had already. “My king?” She called out, then shook her head. It felt wrong. The intimacy of the place prompted for something else. “Thranduil?” Tauriel blurted out, encouraged by the spirit of the abode, the reacquired white gems of Lasgalen lying haphazard on the dresser in front of a painting of a beautiful elleth with a delicate crown who could only have been Legolas’ mother, never closed books on top of others and handmade paper ornaments of amateur fingers-clearly the cosy abode of more of Thranduil, the person, than the king. 

“Here.” The older elf’s gravelly voice sounded from the room she didn’t explore in detail cause judging by the constituents of arrow making and leather straps collection it must have been Legolas’. 

Tauriel followed the sound curiously to find Thranduil sitting on a small stool awkwardly. The wooden item was probably for the use of balancing when pulling boots on, not for sitting. He had it positioned in front of an open wardrobe, filled with silver brooches for fastening clothes on the bottom shelf and hanged full with the kind of white and golden tailored attires that Tauriel knew that the Prince would theoretically possess, but was rarely seen in. 

The king turned towards the movement behind him, slowly letting go of the light leather armour that accessorised the outfits he had been fingering. At first sight, there were no signs of his fading, but the lack of a haughty expression unnerved and fazed her. “The most regal Legolas will ever be is the warrior king look,” Thranduil sighed, his gaze drifting across her distractedly, without really seeing her. His tone was more factual, than accusing as well, resigned and accepting. “Perhaps a more relatable and approachable king is more appropriate in this day and age of danger and change.”

“If you are aware of that, there’s nothing that should be able to keep you from being more approachable and of the people yourself,” Tauriel couldn’t help herself not to argue despite circumstances. Having an opinion and the need to voice truths was in her blood. 

A ghost of a smile played at the corners of his lips, one of appreciation. “I am glad to see you are back to your insubordinate and sprightly nature.” His voice was dull, accommodating, with not an ounce of self-importance-in other words wrong, very wrong. It sounded old and telling, of his diminishing interest in this world and an abandonment of clinging to meaning. It scared Tauriel like nothing else would’ve coming from him.

“You don’t get to give up on life on my account!” She snapped and strode up to two paces from him, planting her feet defiantly and resolute.

“On your account.” Thranduil tilted his head silently, intrigued and nonplussed.

“Yes.” Tauriel confirmed. “You’re drowning yourself in sorrows because Legolas left and that is my fault. Because you couldn’t leave the battlefield sooner for my interruption and ensuing flight to Ravenhill with your son in tow, resulting in dozens of elven lives and injuries, amongst them your own. You will heal and you will heal now.” She stated as if such an order could be given, possible to be followed through in reality and could disregard rank at the same time.

Thranduil raised his eyebrows, intrigued, if not a little amused. “You have delusions about your importance to say the least, elleth.” He was paying full attention to her now though, having been successfully pulled out his dreamlike state of half present, half somewhere else already. It was interesting how her and only her could elicit reactions from him he thought he had forgotten how to feel, like his arousal when she tended to him in the tent. 

“Just let me help, my king,” she knelt in front of him, hesitant hands asking permission to touch him.

Thranduil frowned and glowered, the first reaction she got out of him that was reminiscent of his old self. It went quickly though and he pursed his lips dismissively, a slight move of the head giving her his consent, or more like the sign of his uninterest in what was happening to him. She could do whatever if she liked. “Your concern is as unnecessary as it is inappropriate,” he explained however as it seemed so wrong for someone to be riled up about something that was so inevitable and natural. “It is the way of things in the world. Our time is long, but it comes when it needs to come.”

“I am willing to give death no quarter. Not when it’s about your life or any other creature’s, be that for instance elven, human, or dwarf,” the captain pulled the strings on his tunic unfastened to reveal his glistening white torso. There wasn’t as much as a blemish on it, all healed, nothing she could have concentrated her efforts on even if with the likely possibility of it being fighting mere windmills. She leaned in close and tilted her head to look to the side where most of the orc caused damage had been and under the garment she pulled further out the way and then she did spot a darker line marking a bottom rib, but that was all that remained of his injury and could not be a main contributor to his sustained weakened physical state anymore, regardless whether it had contributed originally. She sat back on her haunches, at a loss, the shape her mental presence was in visibly crumbling at the sight. “You can’t fade,” she mumbled, distraught.

“Why not?” Thranduil countered decidedly confused. “I didn’t expect you to be outwardly happy at the news, but I didn’t expect you to mind either,” the king showed further curiosity. 

“Because your people love you. Because you’re a noble and respectable king. Because you being there is all I’ve known. Because Legolas will be devastated and adverse to his future, resulting duties. Because I never got to know you, not the real Thranduil. The one who consoled me up on the plateau,” she looked up at him hopefully and expectantly.

Thranduil didn’t disappoint. Not when pretences were the makings of the past and all that was ahead was leaving last impressions and Mandos. “That one is the only one left,” the older elf gave tiredly. All that superiority, vanity and stance he had been putting on for the sake of appearances as the king-where did he once have the energy for it, he wondered briefly. 

“My king.” Tauriel started, budding tears in her eyes. “I would do anything you ask of me if it would help in any way,” she promised.

“Then my elleth, be so forward and help me to my bed. I am in need of sleep,” he reached to support himself on her shoulders as he stood on stiff, yet shaky legs, all his years heavy as they weighed him down.

Tauriel stiffened. Although most elves possessed beds, they did not have to sleep in its traditional sense like races with shorter life spans. They could rest their minds and bodies standing up or even doing monotone tasks as long as they took some rest from vigorous exercise. Her concern must’ve been showing on her face because Thranduil gave a displeased grunt, the remains of his pride hurt, “it will just be a little nap.”

“As you wish. As I said, anything,” the warrior maiden assured meeker than ever as she provided support round his waist Thranduil did not seem to object to. 

Tbc


	6. Unqualified

Chapter 6: Unqualified

Thranduil seemed out of it and not needing any of her help, and has been for quite a while but Tauriel did not have it in her to be able to leave him. It was hard to recognise the once and not so long ago ostensibly aloof, callous and insensitive king she thought him to be, but the younger elf now knew that was not who he really was and made her wonder what was he like as a young prince, in that distant past the likes of her never knew-a time of peace and happiness, relative stability and freedom to move about Middle Earth without dangerous repercussions. Did he smile a lot? Laugh and dance? What was the artform he had found most joy in? The way he flirted? The maidens he bedded?

The redhead thought about their time alone in the tent, when she had tended to him. His body she had the privilege to discover, so smooth and perfect and beautiful-it was hard to believe something in there was tainted enough that his mind and physical form was fighting to separate and escape this wretched world. Despite his insistence on not blaming her, the elleth could not shake the feelings of wrongness and guilt. Surely this would not be happening of Legolas was here? She was however at a loss at how she could help. It’s not as if washing him down and using compresses or anything as physical as that would be of any use anymore. The warrior maiden buried her forehead in her hand, sighing. 

“Tauriel?” Thranduil’s voice was somewhat incredulous, “how long have you been sitting there for?”

“A few hours.” She gathered herself together, putting on her most agreeable countenance, “can I get you anything my Lord? Food? Drink?” The younger elf offered, hoping for a yes. Elves resolved to fading did not partake in either, speeding up the process in this way.

He placed a hand on his stomach protectively, “such early pleasures. They do not agree with me anymore,” he confirmed her suspicions, “but I wish for some Dorwinion Wine maybe,” he established.

“And wine agrees?” The archer frowned. “On an empty stomach no less?” It wasn’t exactly what she had been hoping for and she did not make an attempt at hiding her disapproval as she stepped to the nightstand and refilled the glass standing there from the dark, plum bottle beside it. “Perhaps you would like to take a walk in your gardens before sundown?” She encouraged while handing him the beverage. It was well known the king has spent countless hours there just thinking.

Thranduil fixed her with amused eyes, “you’re not one for giving up fights, are you?”

“I thought neither were you,” she challenged. 

His eyes hardened, making it clear the stab had been well placed, but he dismissed the question. “Why are you still here?”

“I pledge my services, my king,” she bowed her head, “please accept them as a recompense for my wrongdoings.”

“You are not a servant, Tauriel. You are much more than that.”

“But you do not let most of your servants in here, my Lord. There should be somebody here in case you’re in need. If for nothing else, but to refill your glass,” she added, somewhat disapprovingly. 

“I lie here and stare most of the time. What need should I have?” He argued, but placed the now emptied chalice back into her hand.

“More?” She turned towards the bottle.

He shook his head. “I don’t think I’ve consumed any in days. You might be right, Tauriel, it may not agree with me anymore either,” he said dispassionately, disinterested, though both of his hands went to his stomach. 

The younger elf panicked however. She was not ready for this and was any of Mirkwood for that matter? The redhead sat on the bedside, her hand hovering towards him, “a little rubbing might get your circulation and digestion going again,” she conjectured.

Thranduil let his head burrow down into his pillows and closed his eyes. His grip round his belly loosened though and Tauriel took that as an indication that he was willing to entertain her suggestion. “I am going to place my hand on your stomach,” she further probed before the action. Having received no objections, she gently put her palm on his clothed belly, his muscles tightening a little under the silken fabric of his tunic at her touch. “Sore?” She enquired sympathetically. 

“I am not interested in the voice of the flesh,” he refused to acknowledge any pain. 

Tauriel sighed and started with little circles round his navel, then up and down where she felt the muscles being rigid. It was like coming home from Erebor all over again and just like then, he gave no indication of having even registered her ministrations, not for a long time, but his expression relaxed and his tummy softened. And then all of a sudden he started squirming and sighing, alarming Tauriel once more, “what is wrong my Lord?”

Thranduil’s eyes snapped open and he grabbed her hand off his stomach, pulling her closer with a yank and a firm grip. “Tauriel, Tauriel. You have no idea what you do to me, do you?”

The younger elf stiffened, eyes searching him confusedly up and down till she found the explanation. The bulge in his leggings. “Not interested in the voice of flesh? Earthly pleasures?” She teased. She had him and she had him good.

Thranduil let go of her just as abruptly as he had seized her and she almost fell on top of him as a result, barely catching herself by grabbing onto his shoulders to push herself up. Inches away, it was the closest she had ever looked into his eyes. There was something wrong with them, that was clear, they were lacking their once blazing fire and concentration, and somewhat glazed over in their disinterest in the situation despite his admission only moments ago. He was still fading and she could not change that, but she now knew she could delay it. Hastily, she found her balance and clambered to her feet, then yanked at the fasteners and ties of her clothing, with the desired reaction from him. 

The king’s eyes widened as she stood before him, naked and defiant, red hair quickly undone and showering her breasts. “What is it you think you’re doing.” He grated, exasperated. With that one captain, you never knew what to expect.

“I am showing you you’re not dead yet so you don’t need to act like you are.”

Thranduil pulled himself into a sitting position, intent. “I’ll rephrase the question Tauriel and I expect you to consider it and answer carefully, without your usual hotheadedness. What are your intentions with these deeds?” He gestured towards her naked form unnecessarily as his eyes already performed the action. 

Tauriel stood at a loss. Her move has indeed been impulsive and inadvertent even for herself, but she was desperate and running out of options. And then there was that desire, which one’s seed had planted itself in her during that time she first cared for him. Or if she was honest with herself, that wasn’t true. While the last centuries had distanced them and he had treated her more aloof the older she got, she had had a crush on his regal persona the moment she saw him, with her not being much older than just a child, taken out of her misery in the thick of the forest by this being of light. A light that was now fading. “I would like to make you well. And as I can’t, the second best thing would be trying to make you happy, if only fleetingly. If you’d take me. A lowly Silvan elf.”

The blond rose on own power and stood to cup her face and tilt her head to look into her eyes. “Not part of your offered remorse and recompense then. So why?” Her closeness was distracting and enticing, but he had to know. “It is not something I take, expect or order without good reason or cause, I will have you aware.”

“It is out of love,” Tauriel raised her chin. Love had always been the greatest cause for defiance she could ever think of. 

“Love.” He repeated, as if testing the word. “You throw that about often and easily.”

“I love easily,” she agreed, “it’s not hard,” she took his hand from her cheek into hers and kissed it. 

He eyed her, still hesitant, his body and mind in disagreement once again and what a surprise. It was the expression in her eyes that convinced him. She was there, offering her care with such openness like no one else, not for a thousand years, not since…no, this wasn’t a time to brood about the past, this was the time to encircle her naked form in his arms and kiss her. 

Tbc


	7. Mayhap

Chapter 7: Mayhap

Sitting on top of Thranduil’s thighs and licking her lips in fervent anticipation, Tauriel marvelled at the feel of his erect manhood between her fingers. They looked so small wrapped around his length. She had been nothing but gentle with him as she somewhat shyly and self-consciously explored the body of her king, yet his cock rose to become thick and smooth and slick with mouth-watering precum, hard as a marble sculpture and fit for a king as it stood to attention proud and distinctive. The redhead wanted nothing more than have that treasure inside her and ride him. Although like most elves, she wasn’t one to sleep around and apart from a few experiments in her early youth she did not have many carnal experiences, the captain was quite sure she was encountering something extraordinarily perfect, stealing her breath away. 

“Could I take you into my mouth?” The elleth thought she should please him first though, but ask permission as well since she was not making love to any ordinary man. Voicing that aloud made her blush, the colour of her cheeks intent on matching her hair. 

“Too late for that,” he bit his bottom lip, his eagerness to penetrate matching hers. His member having had enough of unproductive teases and touches as well, twitched for attention and thus he grabbed hold of her bottom roughly, fingers leaving a mark and smarting as he slid her upwards and impaled her on his manhood. 

Demanding and commanding and not any different than she had known him, the king gave her no breathing space, time to adjust to the overwhelming sensation of a hot and moist heaven filling her, making her whole body burn with dizzying tingles, nor allowed her own initiative, but determined their rhythm and the strength of the thrusts, eliciting a sensation of pleasure in her so intense that her body stiffened and convulsed with it and yet he was still picking up speed to the extent the old bed started to creak and bend, not used to the treatment. Neither of them heard it though, their moans and breathing loud and as one. 

Long, fluid, solid strokes and deep thrusts, penetrating into her core, hips bounding wildly, his hair in a previously unseen, unlikely mess. One thought Tauriel did register and that was disbelief at how someone who can make love like this could be fading. His grunts were of pleasure and it gave the younger elf hope. 

In a surreal and hypnotising moment of detachment from physical sensation, but induced by the ecstasy of it, the warrior maiden looked down at her lover, taking in his appearance. The particular curves his open mouth formed she had never seen before, the dreamy expression, his devouring, warm look in a shade of blue that spoke of better times. It was something she knew she would never forget, a side of Thranduil she found too late. 

One blink and it was all gone. Breathing rapidly and breaking sweat, Thranduil’s movements became erratic. A few more thrusts and he was gyrating his hips more than he was lifting them and Tauriel panickingly realised he was struggling, he was losing strength. Concentrating back on the fleshly, she rocked her own her own hips hard and fast instead, riding with ferocity. Although his eyes closed and his expression turned into one that reminded her more of pain than pleasure, his manhood never faltered in size or hardness, hitting her inner walls with the same maddening effect as before. Tauriel took that as a sign to go on, at least till his arms came up and around her and pulled her upper body atop of him. His lips pecked at hers as he panted and embraced her, at the same time as the heat of his seed flooded her insides and she tightened around him instinctually, rhythmically, milking every last bit. 

“Tauriel…” He breathed, tongue exploring her mouth lazily, and yet there could be no question who had dominance till he slowed and turned his head, indicative of the same exhaustion that engulfed his whole being. Not afterglow, and they both knew it. He did not let go of her however. “Lie with me,” he invited, no command, but question. 

“How are you feeling?” She probed worriedly as she arranged herself to slide down next to him into the space his arms allowed, freeing him of her unnecessary weight atop.

“Bain,” Thranduil answered with more enthusiasm she thought him capable of. “Better than I would’ve hoped at this moment in time,” he assured. He turned a little towards her, keeping the embrace existent and firm, a finger entangling into her hair, most likely on purpose as he left it there. “I wanted to do that for a long time.”

“Make love?”

“Bed you.” He whispered hoarsely.

“I don’t understand.” And she didn’t. “You wanted to bed me? As in me, in particular?” She nestled cosily into the provided space, hand feeling down his chest. Most elves did not have much body hair and so she cherished the few on his chest, pulling her fingers through. She felt his heart beat under and however irregular, she was strangely reassured by it. 

Thranduil chuckled. Not something you heard everyday either, not unless he had been on occasion thoroughly drunk. “Yes, you, you addlepated overweening vexing minx! Don’t you know how maddening you are! Nobody dares to defy me the way you do. The only creature in the kingdom I can’t subjugate. I would think, you!” Cross, he didn’t sound.

“I didn’t know I caused you such trouble,” she admitted docilely, startled.

“Maybe. But it wouldn’t have stopped you if you knew.” He said slowly, voice husky. “You’re uncontrollable.”

“It would’ve probably encouraged me,” Tauriel admitted, a little sheepishly. She just made hot love to the elvenking out of all creatures and basking in the feels, perhaps she could push it a little more. “Knowing I could pull at your strings without too many repercussions.” The redhead was a little weary to look up at him though, but when she did she found him calm and at peace, a little smile tugging at his lips. Tauriel marvelled at him, there were many looks of the king she had never experienced before. How many more were there?

He blinked at her languidly, scarcely registering the rude disturbance of her staring at her king, long eyelashes fluttering shut. And that little detail troubled her once more. “Are you well?”

“You worry so much as a wife,” he grunted, but not in real displeasure. 

“Fight it, you hear!” She hit his chest with unbridled emotion, eyes shining with intensity.

He sighed. “I’ve lived, long enough Tauriel. I’m almost seven thousand years old.” 

She shook her head, disbelieving. Now he wants to fade out of all times when losing him will be a loss to her too, personally, “no other will be able to make me feel in bed the way you did there.” 

He groaned, unimpressed, “you’re young and unexperienced. And you love way too easily, Tauriel.” There were some more incoherent words, and then his breathing slowed, and Tauriel soon knew he was asleep. He still held onto her tightly in his slumber. 

Tbc

Glossary:

Bain – good, fair, blessed.


	8. Span

Chapter 8: Span 

Finishing her captain duties, Tauriel swung by the royal chambers as usual, finding Feren just outside as usual. The chief lieutenant was cleaning his weapons, in principle not on duty himself, but his loyalty commended he remained close. “How is he today?” Tauriel asked as usual, nodding at the dark haired elf, conveying her respect for what he was doing for his king. Although the brown eyed guard was lower in rank than the redhead, she appreciated him for his merit, rather than his position despite their past antagonism and rivalry in the past, though reliable he has always been, as opposed to herself. They had never been on good terms, but that was perhaps changing for a common goal.

“Very docile. He allowed the healers in to ease the pains, but would not take any potion.” Feren provided matter of factly, getting his flask for holding water out. It was the same silent routine they had going for weeks. Albeit they’ve tried, everybody knew only Tauriel could sway the king to ingest anything and even then, it didn’t always stay down. 

The redhead nodded her thanks this time and ambled in purposefully, not having to look for the king. Thranduil had not left his bed for several days, his frame thin and weakened, his mind fuzzy and apathetic. Nobody had heard him utter a word for a week and Tauriel wasn’t sure if she could achieve anything the day. “Thranduil,” she addressed him, not bothering with titles. It was the name he most responded to anyway, though not at the moment. 

Tauriel sat on the bed, as close that her thigh touched his hips and she took his hand into hers. “Thranduil,” she tried again, with no response. The warrior maiden frowned and reached for his head instead, raising it up a little so she could place the flask’s mouth to his lips. Without much conviction, she tilted the container and sure enough, the water dribbled down at the sides on his chin without a reaction from him, just like she had anticipated. It was never easy to make him take anything. “Thrandy, please,” she attempted to get his attention once more by taking his cheeks into her palms and stroking gently. His eyes were open, but did not move towards her. 

The archer ground her teeth. It was becoming harder and harder to jolt him out of his lethargy and it angered her somewhat. Did he not care he was hurting others by accepting leaving this world behind without much of a fight? Fuelled by her resentment, she pulled the light covers off him and his nightgown apart. It had not even been fastened as he did not care to do so and the servants have not been allowed around to witness his miserable decline. 

Huffing in exasperation, she shook him by the shoulder first, while knowing it was of no use. It was more that needed done. His manhood would perhaps still respond, but by this time she didn’t feel it was right to employ that method. She wasn’t going to use him, reduce him to a creature working merely on carnal instinct. All Tauriel did was stroke a hand at his privates through the fabric of his leggings instinctually, a body part that drew her in, and leave it at that. She wet her hands from the cool flask instead and started rubbing his chest and stomach lightly, hoping the sensation of a different feel and texture on his skin will bring him back a little. 

The first indication that what she was doing had some effect was a change in his breathing. Instead of his drowsy, through his mouth huffs, his taking in air became erratic and he groaned, his eyes searching for something, relief as if in pain. It made Tauriel feel immediately guilty for getting him more aware, but it could not be stopped now. His eyes did find her and after a few uncertain, dazed blinks he attempted to raise a feeble hand, reaching for her, but not managing. 

Tauriel intercepted it and grabbed hold of the hovering hand, not wanting him to waste any more effort. “Thank Valar I can still reach you,” she expressed her relief. “Are you in pain?” Was her next thought.

Thranduil looked like he bade to answer, if only in the form of heavier, fragmented breathing. It could mean nothing else but yes. Tauriel felt her heart squeeze in sympathy, “I will send for the healers again at once.”

He shook his head one time, his fingers tightening around hers. It meant no. “Thranduil, this is not acceptable in any way. You have to accept help, at least for our sake so we do not have to watch you suffer. Take water then.” She demanded.

The royal nodded unconvincingly. It was clear he was only humouring her when he let her pour some of the liquid into his mouth and swallowed it down, so much so that the younger elf wondered if she was making a mistake and they will both pay the price in moments when he brought it back up in painful gasps like he had on a few other occasions. 

She saw him, felt him tense. It was easy to see, his habitual limp body was not capable of so much effort driven by a conscious cause. How selfish of her to put him through this for the hope of prolonging his life. He moaned weakly, prompting Tauriel to reach for his stomach, rubbing at the cramping desperately, willing him to keep the water down, needing him to be as well and as strong as it was at all possible. If he was sick, he would lose consciousness, lost in moans of pain soon after and she couldn’t have that. Not today. Not when, “I have important news. Listen! Listen to me!” She pleaded. 

His eyes moved in her direction questioningly through his struggles. “Lll…” 

“Not Legolas,” she felt sorry to crush his hopes, but turned irate immediately when the little light that twinkled in his eyes at the mention of news turned off. “I am with child! I am expecting your child Thranduil!” She shouted, her fingers never stopping their work, even though they trembled, “listen to me you senseless, snooty tard, I will have your bastard!” 

Thranduil seemed lost in anguish. His breathing came in pained gasps, but through it all he raised a questioning, confused gaze at his, merely thrice lover. “Yes.” Tauriel confirmed through tears of relief. At least he will know, if nothing else. “I am going to have your child.”

Thranduil’s fingers tightened around the fabric of his sheets. Squeezing his eyes shut, it was obvious he was trying to get his breathing under control, inhaling deeper through his nose with conscious effort and blowing the air through his mouth to quell the nausea. It took several long moments and Tauriel helped him through it, taking more care and better aim at where she rubbed, gentler motions that facilitated the cramping to abate. 

He eventually blinked his eyes open and grabbed her free hand, all of which must’ve taken him tremendous effort, along with the words he pressed out, “no bastard. You will wed me.” He established with an authority that sounded like he had never lost it. 

Tauriel couldn’t help, but cackle and laugh and sob through the absurdity of it all. “Me, a lowly Silvan elf is to be the queen of Mirkwood? What would Legolas say? You’ve lost your mind. Who will bless such a union? And on your deathbed too.”

Thranduil shook his head. “Throne.” He breathed. Clearly, he had no strength for anything longer to say.

His captain and lover snorted again. “On the throne? I doubt it.”

“Water.” He stated, resolved.

“You want water?” Tauriel questioned suspiciously. They’ve barely been able to stop him from throwing the last few drops up. 

“Water.” He repeated, eyes steeled, an expression self-confident. 

Tauriel raised her eyebrows. “Are you sure?” She asked once more while complying all the same, providing a supporting hand to raise his head and bring the fluid to his lips. She did not have to pour the water into his mouth this time. 

He sucked two deliberate gulps before looking like he was going to gag and threw his head back, squeezing his mouth shut and breathing forcefully through his nose. He needed that water, he could not afford to lose it. He needed that water to get his body into working order. There was a task at hand, get better, wed the insolent minx, raise a child. He wasn’t sure he could do it, but he would try. “More.” He wheezed once he got his cramping belly under control with her unabating help. 

“Not yet.” The redhead pacified him, alarmed by his demeanour. It was of course great news that he was going to fight fading by the looks of it, but she did not want him to rush it or have to go through a terrible ordeal doing so. “Thranduil, give it a few moments.” She advised anxiously, envisioning a possibility for a future with him for the first time.

The king took a few steadying breaths, seemingly taking the advice before gathering the strength to grab for the flask himself. It was then that Tauriel believed that he would get better. 

Tbc


	9. Spectacle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feren's POV

Chapter 9: Spectacle 

Feren was having a hard time finding volunteers for the next day’s border patrol. He would simply have to put names into a hat, exercise his authority and draw out the unlucky guards who would not be able to drink and take part in the merrymaking and revelry that was supposed to complement the little prince’s official anointing, presentation to and joining of the court, appearing formally for the first time to be marvelled at by the high ranking and servants alike, along with the delegations that had arrived from Dale, Rivendell, Eldamar and Lothlorien for the purpose. 

It was going to be a big day of joy and celebration for more than just for the royal family and the elvish people, with many causes for merriment, some well known among the people, some evident only for those close to the king: the revival of the forest that started to remind older elves of Greenwood, the blessing of a child, the rare event of a royal family’s milestone, the king’s health. How close Thranduil had come to fading not long after the little prince, Nestaron* was conceived was not common knowledge, nor was his residual feebleness that required him to restrict his activities and take to actual sleeping, still, at regular intervals. This was why Feren wanted to check on the little family and make sure that they, or more like Thranduil was up for the busy day that would call for lengthy socialising with allies and performing to the people’s expectations in a way that would reassure them about the future. 

Feren let himself into the royal chambers without a second thought, used to stand ready to offer his services in the gallery all the other private rooms opened from. Not many shared the same privilege, not even servants and nannies were customarily welcome in this private area. After having stayed the same for centuries bar for a book or stationary moving an inch or so, the last year of drastic changes and Tauriel’s influence had altered the appearance of the place quite a lot. The dark haired elf had no idea how, but the archer had somehow managed to convince Thranduil to get rid of many of the antique desks and stands that littered the space to the extent some doors could only be reached by going round. It wasn’t to make room for new furniture, but to free the area for little pitter-pattering feet that liked to dance and run. 

Nestaron, just like any other elven child, was developing quickly and at a much faster speed than those of men, and although he looked and was not much more than ten months old, he could jump and shout and squeal and run while playing the hide and seek version of catch with his pet kirinki bird his father gifted him. Which is what he was doing exactly when the head of the royal guard found himself unfortunate enough to stand in the way and be attacked by an overenthusiastic bird that was looking for a hidden child under his cloak by pecking at his shoulders. 

“Would your Highness be so kind as to recall the pest!” Feren peeked under one of the remaining bureaus where he could see the little prince was hiding. 

Nestaron climbed out on his hands and knees and whistled-a short, but melodious sound to communicate with the bird, a language partially forgotten by the likes of him, Silvan or not, who had spent centuries at the caves and out the forest, but one that had been taught to the child by his mother. Tauriel was young enough to remember her heritage and the years spent surviving at hairbreaths in the dense woodland will never be lost on her, despite her being Elvenqueen of Mirkwood. In the direct and unceremonious fashion of her mother’s, Nestaron held out his hands as he climbed to his feet in front of Feren and demanded to be picked up. 

The guard sighed, at a loss. Touching royalty has never been the condonable done thing, but the child seemed so keen that he ended up lifting him up into his arms. “Where is nana and ada then, huh?”

“Thank you for catching him, Feren,” Tauriel appeared from one of the climbable walk-in wardrobes and the guard had to take a moment to process the sight. Longer than ever, the young queen’s hair was swaying freely around her, the colour of her long, light, satin gown matching her curls, bar for the silver, diamante and pearls embroidered into it that in pattern and shade were the only thing reminiscent of her old green and brown favourite attires, along with the intricate crown, clearly fashioned to taste. Feren had never seen her as regal looking before, not at her wedding ceremony or at her coronation, most likely because the elleth had been too absorbed in making sure Thrandruil was well enough, rather than concentrating on formalities. But most astounding was the Lasgalen necklace, sparkling spectacularly on her proudly held neck. It took the chief guard’s breath away. Tauriel didn’t usually bother with appearances, but it looked like this time she really wanted to please the king and Thranduil her, seeing as how he had those jewels resized, fitted and gifted to his new queen.

“He wouln’t wear his crown,” Tauriel complained, advancing with the item in hand. “Keeps running away if I want to put it on.” 

“Legolas was the same,” Feren appeased, “much to my Lord Thranduil’s chagrin.”

“He still is the same,” the warrior queen mused, trailing off. Legolas was not mentioned much, round Thranduil even less. They all missed him, but not talking about him somehow made it a little better. “I can’t blame Nestaron either. I must look very different from his mother in these clothes,” she frowned, looking down on herself. Right enough, the child showed no interest in leaving Feren’s arms. Tauriel had it in her character to air a self-certainty that when paired with regal attires, conveyed her a look of natural grand majesticity, but right at this moment in time of private exposure, she seemed uncomfortable in the role. 

“You are beautiful, if I may, my Queen,” the once hostile to her guard nodded at her. The Battle of Erebor seemed so long ago, although it was in reality not even a couple of years back. That Thranduil had a soft spot for the insolent elleth, that was clear, nobody would’ve gotten away with so much as the younger elf, but once the king’s faithful protector witnessed how Tauriel cared and tortured herself and worked for Thranduil’s life and wellbeing, Feren was resolved to putting his own life down for the ruler’s consort as well. 

“You may not.” Thranduil glided out the bedroom, dressed in his silver robe that favoured his figure, now not as sickly thin as he had not long ago been, and a regal cape that matched Tauriel’s ensemble’s dominant colour. His purposeful steps gave no indication of the lingering weakness in his legs that forced him to habitually hold onto fixtures or walls when in his private rooms and take frequent rests and that, perhaps paradoxically, made Feren uneasy. If Thranduil was starting with pretences early, would he last? 

Unconcerned with Feren’s worries, Thranduil embraced his wife from the back and pulled her close, breathing her in, gathering his strength from her very existence that showered him with her love. With Tauriel tilting her head to the side, they shared a moment Feren deemed too private to witness and thus he took the child over to his rocking elk and set it on motion for him in a controlled manner, making sure the little prince didn’t fall off. No, he heard no rustling and kisses. 

“He’s such a good boy for you,” Tauriel observed. And as the voice sounded from close by, Feren dared to turn. “Any chance you could try and convince him to put on his coat and the silver leggings? The servants had it all set out on his bed,” she entreated. “We will deal with the crown trouble later.”

Thranduil sat by his signing desk, showing his weariness. “Or perhaps you’re here to report?” He suggested.

“No, Sire. Not unless what was to report was that all preparations for the ceremony are underway as planned. I am no nurse and have no idea how he will comply, but I can take the prince if you so wish and have nothing else for me,” the dark haired elf established.

Another moment passed between husband and wife, fleeting, but it still came close to making the weatherworn warrior blush. Those two could make someone uncomfortable and look like they were intimate just by glancing at each other. Of course the honeymoon period was barely over and with Thranduil only just recovering the majority of his strength. “Yes, please, be so kind,” Tauriel directed. “I am really having no luck with him today. Perhaps you.”

“Did you get the little carved archer I fashioned and had sent for you?” Feren leaned down to the elfling’s level. “Shall we go see if it’s in your room?” He lifted the nodding boy off the toy elf. So far so good. 

The youngster fingered the leather straps on his carrier’s cloak, fascinated by the feel of the kine of araw skin and the king’s chief guard was thankful for that, for the young one’s parents were once more confined to their own little world. On the other hand and shaking his head incredulously, Feren couldn’t help but glance at them as he turned the corner for the princeling’s chambers.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” Tauriel sat down beside her spouse, placing a hand on his knee. It was an encouraging squeeze, rather than a restricting one. Thranduil placed his hand on hers, not saying anything, but reassuring her with a ghost of a poised smile. 

Feren wondered why he’d ever had doubts. Thranduil would perhaps never completely recover from his weighty, renewed brush with death, but he will not fade. Not while Tauriel was by his side. 

The End. 

Glossary:

Nestaron – the one who heals.


End file.
